


the night is young, so am i

by dalmatienne



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Dance cards, Dancing, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Significant Hand Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 21:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17231369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalmatienne/pseuds/dalmatienne
Summary: “Perhaps we are in similar situations, if not of a similar mindset,” Duncan offers. “Ball season is not particularly gentle towards those with an empty dance card nor those who do not want one.”The man gives him a small smile and offers his hand. “David Warsofsky,” he says. “I do hope you forgive my bold assumptions from earlier.”“Think nothing of it. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Warsofsky.”  Duncan takes the broad hand in his. “Duncan Siemens, at your service.”“The pleasure is all mine, I’m sure.”





	the night is young, so am i

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [jamesbonds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesbonds/pseuds/jamesbonds) in the [boysarehot](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/boysarehot) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Siemens/Warsofsky REGENCY AU. 
> 
> That's it.
> 
> -
> 
> If you recognize your name in this story, please, for the love of all things holy and good, click away now. This is entirely a work of fiction.
> 
> Well lads. Let it not be said that I don't follow through on my commitments, in this very specific one instance. Also, because I am That Person, I k n o w that dance cards came like 50+ years after the Regency Era but I liked the idea too much to make it historically accurate. Title is from "The Safety Dance," specifically Sleeping at Last's cover.
> 
> Shout out to #AvsFam in general, but especially to JP who first made this meme joke and then beta'd the bizarrely long story I wrote in response to said meme joke. Thanks to Brenna for actually prompting it.
> 
> Exactly three and a half people will find this funny and enjoyable, so thank you in advance to those three and a half people.
> 
>  
> 
> [Because I am Gay and Dramatic I made an accompanying playlist.](https://open.spotify.com/user/1254770573/playlist/2eEKRi3P72jnD8doHLq4Pa?si=jS63jQRGSTCofDA2l-Egww)

The Season opens lavishly with a decadent ball at the Barrie Estate. Every aspect of the manor’s interior design seems to be personally chosen by its master and the spread of hors d'oeuvres and entrees far exceeds even the most opulent ball of previous Seasons. All of the most prominent members of Society are present, from the young and dashing Captain Landeskog and his beautiful wife to the Marquis and Marchioness du Bernier. All in attendance are dazzling and fresh, dressed in their finest, with silk ribbons dancing and weaving through the maze of rooms that make up the Barrie Estate. The string quartet set up in the ballroom is lively, playing only the most popular dances.

As was the fashion, Lord Barrie opens the Ball with a daring Minuet. He and his lady bow and curtsy, intricately bobbing and weaving across the room. They seem to float on the breath of the wind, their fingers just glancing against each other. After several bars, enough for common courtesy, the young Count Zadorov and the countess join the set.

Several other men with titles too long and enumerated to name and their equally esteemed partners lightly step their way through the Minuet for more than a quarter of an hour. Only when all participants had demonstrated to their satisfaction the extent of their skill were the musicians able to pause and then move onto next dance.

Duncan watches the dances longingly from the corner of the room as he listens to Lieutenant Johnson regale a crowd with tales of his horses’ most recent successes on the track. His gloved hand clutches at a blank dance card, damnably free of any names.

He excuses himself from a conversation he was not truly part of and retires to the garden.

* * *

Duncan finds a bench beneath a trellis to think and feel bitter regret for his position. He had so desperately hoped that this Season would be different.

A polite cough startles him from his tragic reminiscing and Duncan’s eyes swing upward to catch on the figure of young man standing at the entrance of the clearing.

In the dim light of the lanterns, Duncan can only catch the broadest of details of the man. He is smaller than Duncan by inches, and of an age with Duncan or a year older. He fills his suit nicely and moves with the self-confident grace of one who has been to many country dances, or so Duncan would presume. Even in the dimness of the night his eyes spark with something unnameable.

Duncan climbs to his feet, aware of his own awkward height and posture. His fingers itch to smooth out invisible wrinkles in his breeches. Instead he says, “Pardon me, I did not see you there,” and pauses. This man is unfamiliar to him, and Duncan cannot guess as to whose duty it is to initiate introductions.

The newcomer takes the initiative, though not to make introductions. He says, without a hint of reserve, “You have not danced once tonight.” A frown pulls handsomely at his fine face. “Do you not enjoy the music?”

Duncan cannot help but be taken aback. Surely the man does not mean to be rude; despite the spark of mischief in his eyes, his face is honest. Even so, Duncan cannot comprehend the idea of anyone paying him so much attention to notice that he has not yet attended the dance floor.

A voice which bore striking resemblance to his mother’s spoke in the back of his mind, beseeching him to engage in conversation and make connections. Duncan chooses to pay this no mind, favoring instead his despondency. He is short with the other man, desiring only to be left alone once more.

“I have not danced,” Duncan responds, “because I have not been asked. No one has signed my card.”

The man steps forward, his frown shifting to something more inquisitive. “Whyever not?”

Without pause or thought, Duncan gestures at his face.

The man blinks uncomprehendingly.

Duncan sighs and rolls his eyes heavenward, weary from socializing with someone who insists upon pestering his wounded ego. “Most people find my countenance to be intimidating.”

“Do they?” The man peers closer. “I do suppose you look rather…” he pauses and strokes his beard thoughtfully. “Striking,” he finishes, nodding seriously.

“Pardon my bluntness,” Duncan says suddenly, “but why are you out in the garden and not enjoying the ball? It is the first of the Season, and a sight to behold. Lord Barrie has spared no expense, to hear him tell of it.”

“Indeed,” the man agrees. “But you see, I followed you out because I thought we were men of a similar mind.”

“Oh?” Duncan cannot help but ask, curiosity piqued.

“Indeed,” he says again, with much more enthusiasm. “For I saw the only man at the ball who did not dance even once and thought to myself, ‘At last, there is a gentleman with the right idea.’”

“You have lost me, I am afraid.”

“I detest dancing,” he whispers, as if telling a great secret that ought not to be said aloud at all. “Or, I would rather not dance. Dancing can be enjoyable, I presume, so long as one has the right dance partner. One who knows _my_ steps rather than _the_ steps. It is not an opinion shared by many, you know.”

Duncan thinks of how he longs to dance, with no particular preference of partner. His longing must show on his face for the other man winces gracefully.

“Ah,” he says, shame coloring his cheeks delicately, “I apologize for my presumption.”

They fall into a silence that is not particularly companionable. The music and laughter from the ball drifts out across the gardens from the open windows and Duncan spares a glance to the warmly glowing estate. The man is still looking at him earnestly and he resolves to make an attempt towards friendliness. _Make connections_ , he thinks to himself.

“Perhaps we are in similar situations, if not of a similar mindset,” he offers. “Ball season is not particularly gentle towards those with an empty dance card nor those who do not want one.”

The man gives him a small smile and offers his hand. “David Warsofsky,” he says. “I do hope you forgive my bold assumptions from earlier.”

“Think nothing of it. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Warsofsky.” Duncan takes the broad hand in his. “Duncan Siemens, at your service.”

“The pleasure is all mine, I’m sure.”

They take seats upon the bench under the trellis and fall into discussing their professions, though they both tactfully dance around any mention of familial connections. Duncan finds Warsofsky to be much more agreeable, now that the misunderstanding between them has been resolved.

At last Duncan stands, feeling that they have already spent too long away from the festivities. It does not do to sequester oneself away with a new acquaintance during the first ball of the Season. Before he can suggest heading back into the house Warsofsky says,

“It has just occurred to me, Mr. Siemens, that we may be able to assist each other this Season.”

“Oh?”

“It is as you said before: Ball season does not favor either of us. We both face great personal injury with each Ball we attend, but we do not dare swear off the events for fear of losing status or favor in Society.” Duncan murmurs his assent. He does not have to wonder long where Warsofsky is going with this for the man says triumphantly, “Therefore I suggest a proposal that would be a great boon to us both.”

“Indeed, Mr. Warsofsky? Do you have a dance partner for me hidden away in your sleeve?”

Warsofsky smiles coquettishly. “That’s just the idea, Mr. Siemens.”

“Say it plainly, sir.”

Warsofsky huffs with impatience but the smile remains. “I propose that we fill each other’s dance cards for the remainder of the Season.”

“I,” Duncan stutters ungracefully. “You have surprised me.”

“It is unconventional,” the man concedes, “for one’s dance card to be claimed in its entirety by an individual who is not one’s betrothed, but I should not think this would impact our respective standing in Society. Unless you are already spoken for?”

“No,” Duncan cannot help but laugh at the idea. “I am not engaged. Nor do I plan to be any time soon. I have neither an appealing face nor the connections, and so I must first secure a more promising salary before anyone would even consider me a prospect.” Duncan stops short, startled at himself for speaking so freely.

Warsofsky looks as though he should like to argue one or more of Duncan’s points but instead says blithely, “I am not looking to be married soon either. I can spare a Season of dances.”

“I cannot take you up on your offer without further contemplation, Mr. Warsofsky.”

“Of course, take the time you need. I shall not pester you for your answer. In fact, I shall not bring it up until you so desire.”

“I thank you for your courtesy.”

“It is the least I can provide. I thank you for even considering the proposal.” The man pauses, a vulnerable look stealing across his face. “I know many of our acquaintances could not even fathom the idea of anyone not liking dancing.”

“Some people do not like hunting, others written correspondence. Why shouldn’t there be those who dislike dancing?”

Warsofsky’s lips tip up in a surprised smile. “I am glad we understand each other, Mr. Siemens.”

With that they return to the ballroom. Duncan is not asked to dance for the remainder of the ball, but his thoughts and emotions are swirling so quickly that he forgets to be upset by the snub.

* * *

The Johnson Estate is not so lavish as the Barrie Estate, for lack of interest by its master rather than for lack of funds, but it is still intricately and exquisitely decorated for the second ball of the Season. Where most estates would have portraits of relatives and important connections, portraits of Johnson’s race horses line the halls, fine stallions painted by expert hands. Curiously, one of the large hunting dogs placidly roams the hall. No one pays it any mind except to sneak it hors-d’œuvres.

Duncan spends most of his time with the dog, petting it as he watches the dancers.

As a quadrille starts up, Duncan’s eye is caught on one of the dancers, a lithe redhead he recognizes as Mr. Warsofsky. He is a beautiful dancer, graceful and light on his feet. He moves in time with the music and looks, to the casual onlooker, to be quite amused with the dance.

But Duncan, who had not realized that he had spent so long in the man’s company to gain the ability to read his face so easily, can see discomfort in the tightness of Mr. Warsofsky’s smile. An almost imperceptible tremble wracks his body with even the barest touch of another dancer’s hand against his own. Duncan is startled by the intensity of his desire to remove Mr. Warsofsky from the dance floor, to ease any of the discomfort the man is feeling.

This, rather than the sleepless nights he spent agonizing over Mr. Warsofsky’s proposal, makes his decision.

The quadrille ends and Duncan watches as Mr. Warsofsky bows to his dance partner and excuses himself for a moment of repose. Duncan pats the hunting dog on the head and follows Mr. Warsofsky to the other room.

He is stood apart from the others in the room, a glass of brandy held in his hand. His shoulders are a stiff line marring his otherwise fine silhouette and at once Duncan is filled with doubt, pausing in his steps. He does not wish to upset him further. Just at that moment Mr. Warsofsky looks up, his pale blue eyes catching on Duncan. Duncan finds his breath arrested as Mr. Warsofsky’s face alights with recognition and the tension drains from his posture.

“Mr. Siemens!” he greets, waving him closer. Duncan cannot help but to obey. “I must confess I was hoping to see you tonight. I trust that you have been well?”

“I have,” Duncan says and allows himself to be drawn into conversation regarding most everything save what he wishes to discuss most.

As a story of Mr. Warsofsky’s brothers draws to its natural conclusion, Duncan fortifies himself and says, “I must also confess that I was hoping to see you tonight.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, I have been giving your proposal a great deal of thought.”

Warsofsky motions for Duncan to continue but says nothing, for which Duncan is eternally grateful. Without taking a pause to order his words in a more graceful manner, Duncan confesses,

“I could not in good conscience take you up on that offer Mr Warsofsky.” Warsofsky looks downcast and Duncan hastens to add, “You detest dancing and I would not put you in a position in which you are forced to do something you would rather not.”

“Ah!” Warsofsky says, brightening once more. “Well, you should not keep yourself up at night with such concerns, sir. I assure you that I will only do what I want.

The smile Warsofsky presents him is cocky and headstrong, but if Duncan tilts his head just so, he can see thin cracks in the veneer of his visage. For all that the man has an honest face, something about his presentation seems disingenuous. Duncan leans in close, closer, perhaps, than the present conversation permits, and says softly,

“I must ask, Mr. Warsofsky, why do you agree to the dances you profess to loathe?”

Warsofsky appears taken aback by Duncan’s candor. His cheeks color and though his posture remains upright, he cannot meet Duncan’s eyes directly, instead looking back towards the ballroom as he sips at his brandy. Duncan allows the unnatural pause in the conversation, needing to hear from the man any confirmation that indulging Duncan’s desires would not come at great cost to him.

At last Warsofsky’s eyes focus once more on Duncan, resolved but vulnerable. “Perhaps I do so in the hope that one day I might find that I enjoy it.”

“And you think I might help you achieve that?”

“Perhaps. And,” Warsofsky says impetuously as Duncan opens his mouth to retort, “I think that, should I not enjoy the dancing, should I find that it brings me great personal discomfort, you would terminate our agreement posthaste. I think that you value my comfort over a silly dance card.”

His eyes twinkle with that spark of mischief Duncan first saw in Barrie’s gardens.

“I should hope so,” Duncan says gruffly, feeling his own cheeks color at Warsofsky’s bold words and unchecked tongue. He feels out of depth while conversing with Warsofsky, but the man seems eager to help him keep up.

That alone makes him unique among the other members of Society.

“Additionally, I happen to know for a fact that dancing with you will be no imposition to me.”

“Do you, now?”

“Indeed,” Warsofsky says with another smile, “for I shall teach you to dance just the way I want.”

Duncan finds himself smiling back, taking in the man before him. He allows himself to imagine dancing with Warsofsky, their steps mimicking each other, bowing and casting across the room, their hands _just_ touching…

“Is that it then?” Warsofsky prompts, startling Duncan out of his improper reverie. “Are we fully in accord?”

Duncan looks at Warsofsky, his open honest face, and cannot think of one compelling reason to refuse the man.

“We are,” he says, and shakes Warsofsky’s broad, gloved hand.

* * *

They convene in Warsofsky’s modest apartments in town to practice, Warsofsky humming the music as he guides Siemens in steps.

“Tell me, Mr. Siemens,” Warsofsky begins, taking no heed of the hesitancy that seems to have arrested Duncan. “What dances do you know? La boulangere, any quadrilles?” Warsofsky turns when Siemens does not answer. A subtle change comes across his face and his eyes glint in the candlelight as he says innocently, “The Minuet?”

“Lord above,” Duncan says roughly. “The Minuet. Would you ask a smith’s apprentice to craft a sword for a king? No, I have not the experience to know the Minuet.”

“I see,” Warsofsky hums. “Then we shall work up to that. In good time, I shall make you the finest Minuet dancer in Town. But Rome was not built in a day, and we still have most of the Season. No, we shall start with something far more simple. Here, you stand there, place your feet like so.”

Warsofsky leads, for though Siemens is taller by far, he knows neither the steps nor the tempo. For all of his protested disdain of dancing, Warsofsky is focused, eyes glittering in the candlelight. A smile plays upon his lips, half hidden by his well-trimmed beard. Duncan finds his eyes caught on that quiet look of amusement and stumbles through the first Pousette.

“Keep up, Mr. Siemens,” Warsofsky calls. “Learn my steps.”

Duncan flushes but rights himself, pacing his clumsy chassés to the metronome. Their hands brush against each other, just the barest touch of Warsofsky’s gloved hand against his own, and Duncan dares to envision what it might be like to intertwine a dance partner’s naked fingers with his own.

They cross and cast across the room before coming to a halt across from each other. Warsofsky is staring at him critically as they bow. Though the paces of the dance were gentle and they had only gone through one series of the steps, Duncan can feel himself perspire under Warsofsky’s heavy gaze.

At last, Warsofsky smiles and steps lightly forward until he is only just out of Duncan’s reach. He gives Duncan one last appraising look and chuckles.

“I believe I can work with this, Mr. Siemens.”

* * *

The first presentation of their arrangement is set to premier at the third ball of the Season, at Lord Comeau’s summer estate. Duncan is far too nervous to take in the fine decorations of the estate; he barely remembers to accept the piece of parchment from the servant positioned at the entrance to the ballroom. He quickly reads through the card, feeling the tension in his shoulders relax as he comes across a few listed dances that he can recognize. Lieutenant Johnson and Baron MacKinnon enter the ballroom just behind him and Duncan is swept up into their conversation as Johnson regales them with news of his most recent acquisition.

As they discuss the horse, the music starts up for the first dance of the night, a Minuet that none of them take part in. Johnson does not even acknowledge the music as he enthuses over his newest horse’s chances at the track.

“His legs are strong and he has a winner’s lungs. His lineage, I assure you, is second to none. I of course had to give him only the finest of names.”

“Don’t play coy with us, Johnson, just tell us whatever silly title you’ve given the poor beast.”

Johnson sips at his brandy, smiles demeurly at MacKinnon, and pronounces, “Macwinnon.”

Duncan barely hides a smile behind his own glass. MacKinnon does not bother to hide his own look of incredulity.

“You profane my family name!”

“I _honor_ your family name, sir.”

“Pardon me,” comes a familiar voice just at Duncan’s elbow. The three men turn to face a smiling Warsofsky. “Might I borrow Mr. Siemens?”

“Of course you may have him,” Johnson says generously, “as I am sure his presence or lack thereof will not affect Lord MacKinnon telling me in great detail how he finds my talent for horse names.”

Warsofsky inclines his head gracefully and turns fully to Duncan, not even leading him away from Johnson and MacKinnon. “May I see your dance card, sir?”

Duncan’s fingers tremble as he presents the requested slip of parchment. Warsofsky hums as reads over the dances and scrawls his name on a few lines. Duncan can feel his heart beat unnaturally loud in his chest and he can only hope his nerves do not show in the coloring of his cheeks. As Warsofsky returns the dance card to him, Duncan can feel Johnson and MacKinnon’s eyes on them.

“I do so look forward to seeing you on the dance floor, Mr. Siemens,” Warsofsky says and, with a little bow and a brash wink, he sweeps away to join a conversation with Count Zadorov and Captain Landeskog on the other side of the room.

Duncan examines the fine lines of Warsofsky’s signature on his card, right next to the first of two cotillions and la boulangere at the bottom of the card. He can hardly believe that, at last, he will be able to dance at a ball.

The excitement bubbles up in him, so much so that Duncan is barely able to keep up with the conversations around him; instead, he goes over the dance steps in his head and listens as the other dances are called, counting down until at last Lord Comeau calls for the first cotillion. Though he had been waiting for this very moment, Duncan startles so badly he nearly drops his glass. He sets it on the mahogany table Johnson and MacKinnon have stationed themselves by and excuses himself. MacKinnon gives him an encouraging, if distracted, smile and Johnson reaches out to clap his shoulder brusquely.

Warsofsky meets him on the dance floor, winking once more as they wait for the other couples to take their places. Excitement and nerves color his cheeks as Duncan nods back. He is sure his eyes are unattractively wide but Warsofsky does not seem put off by any means. At last all are in place for the dance and Duncan bows first to Warsofsky and then the ladies next to him. Then the music starts up and Warsofsky lightly takes Duncan’s hand in his own, the satin of their gloves sliding sensuously as he leads them in a processional down the middle of the dancers.

There are not so many couples that the dance lasts for ages, as can sometimes happen at the most well-attended balls, but Duncan still feels as though the dance lasts both a lifetime and a single breath. He is overwhelmed and yet he is unsatiated; just the few moments spent casting and reeling, crossing and circling, have left him breathless and eager for more. As he bows once more to Warsofsky, he can still feel the ghost of the other man’s fingers brushing against his own.

They make their way off the dance floor, moving to the refreshment table as Lord Comeau approaches the musicians to call for the next dance.

“And how did you find your first dance of the season, Mr. Siemens?” Warsofsky inquires with a playful twist of his lips that would be impertinent on anyone else. Perhaps it is still impertinent on Warsofsky, but Duncan has grown too fond of the man to mind.

“Most invigorating,” Duncan breathes, forgetting himself as he crowds closer to Warsofsky. “It’s so different, dancing with a group. All those moving pieces to keep track of, like cogs in a clock. I must confess, I was deathly afraid of forgetting my steps or crashing into Lady Comeau. I very nearly lost my footing once, but you,” Duncan feels his cheeks color in admiration, “you are an excellent lead, Mr. Warsofsky, you corrected me at once.”

“Indeed?” Warsofsky murmurs, his own cheeks redding under his beard. Duncan at once pulls himself back, so as not to crowd the man further or put him ill at ease.

“Quite,” Duncan says. He clears his throat in an attempt to regain his composure and asks, “And how did you find the dance, sir?”

Warsofsky’s lips, quite against the apparent will of their owner, twist down a fraction, and Duncan is immediately consumed with shame and horror. Oh, how cruel, how contemptuous he must seem. How loathsome he is, to take pleasure in dancing without a thought to the comfort or wellbeing of his partner. Some of this must play out on his own face for Warsofsky’s eyes widen and he reaches out to touch his fingers against the back of Duncan’s gloved hand.

“It is true that I did not find as much joy in the dancing as you did. However,” he urges, “do not think of this as a slight against yourself, or that you are forcing me to do this. I mean it sincerely, with every fibre of my being, when I say that dancing with you tonight was the first time I have ever enjoyed myself while dancing at a ball.”

“Truly?” Duncan cannot help but ask, staring down into Warsofsky’s honest face.

“Truly. You are proving yourself to be a most worthy dance partner, Mr. Siemens. With some more practicing between balls, I am sure that by the end of the Season I shall be laughing and having as gay a time as yourself.”

“I...I do so hope that is the case, Mr. Warsofsky.”

They gaze into each other’s eyes for more than a moment, content in the shared company. Someone calls for Warsofsky and they startle. Duncan realizes that Warsofsky’s fingers had still been resting against his hand when the other man removes them, turning to an approaching acquaintance.

“Warsofsky, you are a man of musical taste! Come, regale us with your opinions on Salieri and Mozart.”

“Please, sir, do not ask me to opine on Mozart. I cannot bear to speak ill of the dead,” Warsofsky calls back. He returns his focus to Duncan just long enough to say, “My presence is requested elsewhere, I am afraid. We shall meet again for la boulangere.”

Duncan watches as Warsofsky joins the other group, animated and lively as he decries this symphony or that waltz. The back of his hand tingles from where Warsofsky’s fingers lingered.

* * *

It is fortuitous that their professions allow them to schedule frequent appointments for dance practice. It only takes a few more sessions before Warsofsky deems Duncan’s cotillion to be expert enough to move on to the waltz cotillions and variations on the Scotch reel. Duncan finds that he favors the reels, both for their fast pace and for the way Warsofsky looks as he whirls through the steps, his blue eyes sparkling and his red hair blazing.

At the end of each practice, Warsofsky sees him to the foyer of his apartments, touches the back of Duncan’s hand, his ever-present glove slipping along Duncan’s knuckles, and says, “My steps suit you, Mr. Siemens. You are ever improving. Soon all in good standing in Society will be demanding you save them a spot on your dance card.”

Duncan is sure to turn the compliment back on Warsofsky, to insist that only a true master could have made a dancer out of him. He very carefully does not think about how the ability to dance does not make up for a lack of connections or salary, nor does it make his countenance and looming appearance any more appealing.

He is also careful not to think about how much he desires to keep just the one name on his card.

Despite his melodramatic musings, Duncan looks forward to the hours he spends tucked away in Warsofsky’s cozy apartments, dancing to music-half hummed and half-imagined.

* * *

The Season picks up in earnest after Lord Comeau’s ball, and soon Duncan finds his social calendar filling up just as fast as his dance card, though one of the two is counterfeit. He falls behind in his correspondence with his mother, which she berates him for in her increasingly agitated letters. She inquires after his new acquaintances and whether he has received a promotion. Duncan cannot bear to lie to her for she only wants what is best for him, so he restricts his letters to only the barest of details: that he plans to attend all of the balls this Season, that he has been invited to attend a race or two at the track with Johnson and MacKinnon and their entourage.

He does not mention Warsofsky to her. He does not mention the dancing. It is so special to him, so dear, that he keeps it locked tight in his chest where it can burn brightly and warm him in the cold, dark nights.

With each ball they attend, Warsofsky signs his name next to more of the dances on Duncan’s card. Similarly, Duncan’s name takes up more space on Warsofsky’s card, edging out all others until Duncan is Warsofsky’s sole partner the whole night through.

Duncan has never been more exhausted, nor has he been more elated.

Warsofsky, too, he is pleased to note, seems more at ease during the dances. His shoulders do not bunch so and he does not shy away from the other dancers in their sets. His blue eyes crinkle in laughter rather than discomfort and each press of his gloved hand against Duncan’s seems to last a fraction of a heartbeat longer than the last.

* * *

It is at the Soderberg ball that Duncan first hears of the talk which had supposedly been circulating through Society.

Duncan arrives at the estate prior to Warsofsky and, after accepting his dance card from the posted servant, takes a turn about the ballroom. He admires the artwork and the furnishings, all of the latest European fashions, and exchanges pleasantries with the other attendees. Though the lords and ladies and other families of status had always been more than courteous when speaking with him, Duncan finds that his own sense of belonging has only increased since dancing regularly with Warsofsky.

After greeting his host and congratulating him on his lovely estate and lovelier family, Duncan is drawn into light conversation with Mr. Wilson, whose own estate lay on a parcel of land eastward of Duncan’s apartment in Town. Wilson’s manner is amiable and comforting, and the conversation flows easily between them as they discuss the progression of the Season.

They discuss at length first the variety of food served at each ball thus far and then the quality and number of dances performed. With a tip of his brandy glass to Duncan, Wilson says suddenly, without prompting, “Am I to understand that congratulations are in order?”

Duncan’s glass pauses against his lips as he is taken unaware by the question. Wilson looks as amiable as ever, not a hint of malice hiding behind his short blond beard. Even so, Duncan cannot guess as to what he is alluding to and says just as much.

“I know it has not yet been announced in the papers, but you need not be so reserved and formal in this crowd. We have all seen what wonderful partners you and Warsofsky make on the dancefloor. I do not think I have ever seen two dancers so thoroughly enraptured with each other.”

“Pardon me, sir, but I really do not know—”

“Oh, has Mr. Siemens finally made his engagement public?”

Profound confusion colors Duncan’s cheeks as he and Wilson turn to the young Lord Jost. He smiles playfully at them, eagerly awaiting an answer to his inquiry; behind him, Jost’s redheaded companion looks onward, intrigued.

Duncan swallows twice before he is assured that he won’t embarrass himself when he speaks, but all his voice can produce is a weak, “Engagement?”

“Yours was not the courtship we expected to see this season,” Wilson begins gently—

“I placed my wager on a different horse, if you catch my drift,” Jost interjects.

—Wilson continues blithely as if Jost had offered no opinion, “But it has been most successful. I have not seen Warsofsky so truly enjoy himself while dancing since he has started dancing exclusively with you. Have you planned when you will announce the official engagement?”

“Surely the topics of engagement and nuptials have come up?” Jost’s companion presumes when Duncan fails to provide a swift enough answer.

“No, we… They have not.”

“But you dance so _well_ together!” Jost exclaims with affected distress.

“We beg you to forgive our assumptions, Mr. Siemens,” Wilson murmurs with an appropriately empathetic look upon his features. Caught off guard, Duncan can do nothing but waive off the matter and ungracefully steer the conversation to less fraught ground, such as Johnson’s victories at the track.

A gentle pressure against Duncan’s elbow startles him. He turns and is immediately arrested by the sight of Warsofsky, he lean figured trimmed in a neat navy waistcoat that brings out the brilliance of his hair and eyes.

“Forgive me for interrupting, gentlemen,” Warsofsky says in a tone that suggests a noted lack of remorse. He does not spare them a glance and focuses only on Duncan. “May I see your dance card, sir?”

Duncan hands the requested card over and watches as Warsofsky marks it appropriately. Duncan is well aware of their audience—he can hear Jost whispering to his companion and Wilson—but he does not dare give them the satisfaction of acknowledging them. At last Warsofsky returns his card and Duncan notices at once that every dance on his card has been claimed, save for the Minuet.

“I must go greet our host, but I look forward to seeing you on the dance floor.”

Helplessly, Duncan watches Warsofsky take his own turn about the room, stopping to talk with Lord Soderberg. Jost leans over Duncan’s shoulder to examine the card held loosely in his grip.

“A most successful courtship indeed,” he pronounces once more, and turns to his companion. “When will _you_ lay claim to the entirety of _my_ dance card?”

The young man’s cheeks flame to match his hair, and both Duncan and Wilson excuse themselves from the pair. Wilson rejoins his lady by the refreshments with Captain Landeskog and Lord Barrie, allowing Duncan some privacy to collect his thoughts and calm his own reddened cheeks.

Surely not all of Society thinks that, that he is _courting_ Warsofsky. The very idea of it, that they would be a good match, is absurd. Warsofsky is charming and handsome, with a smile that could light up any darkened room. And Duncan...well, Duncan cannot claim the same attributes for himself.

Whether or not they are a suitable match, Duncan firmly reminds himself, is not germane to the situation at hand, for Warsofsky had made it quite clear at the beginning of their arrangement that he was looking for neither courtship nor an engagement.

The reminder sombers him and not even Soderberg calling for the Minuet can rouse Duncan from his sulk. He watches the couples curtsy and bow, cast and cross with the sort of low mood he had not felt since the Johnson ball weeks past. Abruptly he is cross with himself. Why should he be in the doldrums when precisely nothing has been taken from him? Warsofsky promised him dances, and so he has delivered. The Season has not yet come to a close, and there is still dancing to be done. Duncan still has much to look forward to.

As if summoned by Duncan’s thoughts, Warsofsky suddenly appears at Duncan’s elbow once more, pink lips tipped up in a secretive smile behind his beard. Duncan cannot help but raise an inquisitive eyebrow at the other man’s expression.

“Would you like to participate in the Minuet at the last ball of the Season?” Warsofsky queries, apropos of nothing. Duncan takes in a sharp breath. He cannot bear to look into Warsofsky’s eyes, for fear that any of his feelings can be read too easily on his face.

“Yes,” he says at last. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

“Superb. We shall begin practicing at once, so that we can outmatch everyone. Come,” he says with a slight touch to Duncan’s fingers, “Soderberg is about to call the first of the reels, and I do know you favor those.”

“I do indeed.”

The dancing has not yet begun and Duncan can hardly catch his breath. Even as the sets begin, Warsofsky keeps bestowing him with private little smiles, laughing and glancing his fingers against Duncan’s sides as though they are tucked away in his apartments, dancing to hummed music. It is like Duncan is seeing Warsofsky anew. He had always considered him to be handsome, with his brilliant red hair and fair complexion, his neatly trimmed beard and his fine eyes, but studying him now is like experiencing a garden first in twilight and then again in the bold light of day.

The natural end of the reel takes Duncan by surprise, he is so caught up in his contemplation of the man before him. He bows, a fraction of a moment after Warsofsky, who laughs at him without malice.

They dance through half the card, through more reels and quadrilles, a cotillion, and several longways country dances that Duncan cannot recall the names of. He can barely concentrate on his steps, and he is thankful for the long hours of practice that allow his body to remember the movements even if his mind cannot.

At last, he can bear the weight of his thoughts no longer and he begs reprieve from the dance. Warsofsky is at once concerned and gently leads him off the dancefloor with a gloved hand grasping securely at his elbow. Even as they reach a quiet corner of the room, Warsofsky maintains his hold, leaning in and peering up at Duncan.

“Are you well, sir? I do not know you to leave dances unfinished.”

“My sincerest apologies, Mr. Warsofsky,” Duncan mumbles, unable to met his gaze. “I must confide that I am...not feeling well this evening. My head does not sit right on my shoulders.”

Warsofsky’s delicate mouth flattens in concern and Duncan can feel himself redden further in response.

“Perhaps I should see myself home.”

“Do you require an escort?”

“I would not have you leave the ball early on my behalf,” Duncan says quickly, stepping out from under Warsofsky’s touch. He mourns the loss dearly.

“It would be no trouble—”

“Please, sir, it is only a headache and nothing more. I shall be well enough for our next appointment, I assure you.”

Without providing Warsofsky another opportunity to offer his services as an escort, Duncan excuses himself. He bids a hasty farewell to Lord Soderberg and does not say much else with the exception of requesting his coat and hat from the footman.

His journey back to his apartments in Town is marked by swirling thoughts and emotions he can barely keep track of. Indeed, he is shocked to find that he must reconsider his feelings towards Warsofsky, that his admiration has turned most romantic in nature. The mere memory of him smiling and winking across the dancefloor sets Duncan’s very heart to flutter, and his breath quickens at the thought of Warsofsky’s gloved hand resting upon his own.

To think, most of Society figured Duncan out before he was even aware of his own feelings.

The very thought of the assumed courtship sobers Duncan immediately.

It is true that Duncan enjoys dancing with the other man. Duncan has not perceived even the slightest shade of discomfort in Warsofsky’s manner while dancing since their fourth ball, and the man is as free with his laughter and smiles as ever. But a marriage is not just dancing. They have not discussed the particulars of their professions let alone their salaries, and Duncan is all too aware that he would not bring much to a match.

Surely Warsofsky can find much better offers, Duncan thinks to himself morosely as he enters his darkened apartments.

He’s breaking his own heart, despite only just now realizing where it truly lies.

* * *

As per tradition, the ball at Landeskog is the most grandiose of the Season, truly befitting a Season finale. Merely entering the foyer steals Duncan’s breath away; he stares wide-eyed at the gleaming wood and polished metal, the fine porcelain and crystalline glass. A footman comes to take his coat and hat and another presents him with a delicate dance card, the dance titles written with a fine hand. Duncan barely glances at the card before he slips it into his waistcoat pocket.

The ballroom, upon his entrance, is nearly full to bursting with all members of Society and their families. Indeed, Duncan arrived later than planned to the Landeskog ball, having been delayed by nerves and a desire to never see this Season end. Duncan studies the crowd until he sees a familiar lithe form and a flash of red hair.

It does not take long for his feet to carry him to Warsofsky. When he is a few paces away, Warsofsky catches his eye and excuses himself from his conversation with the Marquis du Bernier, turning his full attention to Duncan with a secretive smile.

“You look well tonight, Mr. Warsofsky,” Duncan greets, cheeks coloring with the truth of his statement. Warsofsky looks very fine, wearing the navy waistcoat Duncan had first seen him in at the first ball of the Season. It had looked well on him in the dim lighting of the gardens and in the bright light of the ballroom it is nothing short of striking.

“Mr. Siemens, a pleasure as always. I trust that you are looking forward to the dances?”

“As always, they will be the pinnacle of my night,” Duncan confesses and, boldly, he offers his dance card to Warsofsky before the other man can ask for it.

If Warsofsky is taken aback by his presumption he does not show it, instead taking the card in his gloved hands and signing his name next to each dance. With a final flourish, Warsofsky tucks his pen away and returns the card to Duncan. As their fingers brush, Warsofsky confides, “I do not think this is necessary any longer. Everyone knows you are entirely spoken for.”

Duncan is taken aback. Hope and skepticism war within him, fueled by the blush upon Warsofsky’s cheeks and the wink he sends Duncan’s way.

Together they approach Captain Landeskog and his wife to congratulate him on the ball and a successful end to the Season. Landeskog is only too delighted to discuss the minutiae of planning such a ball, calling out to Lord Barrie across the room that misters Siemens and Warsofsky find his dinner presentation to be far superior than the one offered at the Barrie estate. Barrie immediately abandons his conversation with Lord MacKinnon to discuss the matter with Landeskog at a closer proximity, whereupon Duncan and Warsofsky quit the conversation entirely.

There is still time enough before the dancing commences that they are able to exchange pleasantries with a handful of acquaintances. Wilson greets them warmly, as does Lord Jost who none too subtly flashes his filled-up dance card, each dance claimed by a Mr. J. T. Compher.

Sooner than Duncan expects, Mrs. Landeskog calls the first dance, the Minuet that Duncan knows well from the hours spent in Warsofsky’s apartments. As Warsofsky leads him to the dance floor, a sudden wave of nerves overtakes Duncan and he finds himself rooted to the spot. Warsofsky turns to him, takes in Duncan’s grave countenance and gives him a small private smile.

“Are you worried about the Minuet?” At Duncan’s nod, Warsofsky says, “You have nothing to worry about. I have taught you all I know. You know _my_ steps and you know them well. There’s no way you can fail.” He gently touches the fingertips of his gloved hand to Duncan’s cheek and at once Duncan can move again.

Fortified, Duncan takes his place on the dancefloor between Jost and Johnson, who has deigned to participate in the very last Minuet of the Season. As the music starts, Duncan locks eyes with Warsofsky and can under no power of his own look away.

The Minuet is far more complex than any cotillion or reel that Duncan has since performed, but with Warsofsky’s eyes trained solely on him, Duncan feels as though he could dance it in his sleep. They cross and cast with the other couples in their set and with each glance of Warsofsky’s hand against his own, Duncan’s heart beats that much harder. He is aware of the other couples in their set glancing at them and whispering. When Duncan meets Jost’s eyes, the other man winks, though not so charmingly as Warsofsky had earlier. On Duncan’s other side, MacKinnon smiles encouragingly.

So well-attended is the ball that the Minuet lasts far longer than any dance Duncan has yet participated in. Upon its conclusion, he is breathless in the face of Warsofsky’s cheeks flushed with exercise, his bright blue eyes sparkling at him from a few paces away.

Duncan can bear the weight and breadth of his feelings no longer and feels fit to burst with them if they remain unspoken any longer.

“Mr. Warsofsky,” Duncan says, stepping closer to the other man. “May I solicit a private audience with you?”

“They are about to call the Scotch reel. Are you sure you would like to miss that?”

“I can afford to miss one dance for the sake of the conversation I should like to have with you.”

Warsofsky peers up at him, eyebrows furrowed in bemusement. He searches Duncan’s face and whatever he finds must satisfy him for he turns at once to the far end of the ballroom where a door leads to an unoccupied balcony, his hand insistent upon Duncan’s elbow.

The balcony looks out upon the Landeskog lands and, beyond that, the pine-dotted mountains in the distance. Heavy clouds obscure the moon and stars, threatening rain, but even in the dark Duncan is drawn to Warsofsky’s glinting eyes. Warsofsky draws them to the far corner of the balcony, where they are not likely to be interrupted, and Duncan restrains himself from crowding in close.

“You wished for a private audience with me, Mr. Siemens. I believe this is the most privacy we can assume at a Landeskog ball.”

“I, yes,” Duncan says as, embarrassingly, his words fail him. Warsofsky touches his elbow once more.

“Are you well, sir?” Warsofsky asks with a gentleness that shakes Duncan to his very core and at last he can find his words.

“I have never been so well in all my years. This Season has provided me with my happiest months and I am loathe to see it end. I have learned so much this Season, and I have danced so much, and I would not be here were it not for you, Mr. Warsofsky. I...being your dance partner is among the achievements that I am most proud of.”

Warsofsky seems taken aback even as he takes a step closer, his head tilting back to look into Duncan’s face. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but if Duncan were to stop talking now, he would never regain the courage to reveal his true intentions.

“Sir, I have come to appreciate you as more than a dance partner. I look forward to our dances, but I long to hear your stories of your family and your opinions on long dead composers who I know nothing about. I am sustained by your charm and your smile. You must know,” Duncan whispers, barely loud enough to be heard over the approaching thunder and the music of the ball, “how highly I regard our friendship. Without it, without you—”

“I love you,” Warsofsky interrupts, freeing one hand from his ever-present gloves to press a naked palm against Duncan’s cheek, “most ardently.”

His other hand tangles with Duncan’s as he leans in to press his mouth to Duncan’s lips, parted in shock. At once Duncan comes alive, and he returns the kiss with great fervor. He can hardly believe it is happening but as Warsofsky makes a pleased sound against where they meet, Duncan can come to no other conclusion that his previously unrequited feelings are, in fact, requited most wholey.

They part, smiling helplessly against each other’s lips as they take in shaky breaths. Warsofsky’s bare thumb traces along Duncan’s lower lip and he so wishes they were alone in Warsofsky’s apartments rather than skirting the edges of the most well-attended ball of the Season. Duncan pulls at the glove still encasing Warsofsky’s hand until he can tuck the slip of silk away in his waistcoat pocket and tangle their exposed fingers together.

“This,” Warsofsky declares, “has been a most successful courtship.”

Duncan can do nothing but lean down to press more kisses to his smiling lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Epilogue: they announce their engagement, get married, and on their wedding night, David fingers Duncan so well that he comes untouched because he has a Thing for David's hands. And they live happily ever after in relative poverty, the end.
> 
> References Used:  
> [This Regency Dance Site](https://www.regencydances.org/dancelist.php)  
> [This Reading of Pride and Prejudice, which helped me get into the Mood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eVHu5-n69qQ)


End file.
